


The Naked British Baker

by kingbooooo



Series: The Naked British Baker Trio [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baby's First Slow Burn, Disaster Francis, Francis Crozier's Asshole Cat, How tf do y'all write slow burns without screaming in frustration, James in a dress (not The Dress sorry), James' filthy mouth, Less So But Still A Disaster James, Light Hair-pulling, M/M, Several points where they absolutely should have fucked and didn't, Thomas Blanky Great Wingman or Best Wingman, Written by someone who doesn't bake and I don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-12-27 02:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21111071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: “I don’t think there are coconuts in Ibiza,” Francis muttered, looking over the mess of macaroons.  He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, Cornelius eyeing him from the counter.  “Don’t even consider it.  These are not for cats, and if they were, they would not be for ones who bite.”  Cornelius meowed and began washing himself.- - -Grumpy Francis, flashy James, and an anonymous baking blog.  What could go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry Franklin fans, he's definitely a (super dead) asshole in this one, but Sophia is a good egg.
> 
> Inspired by a twitter convo about me impulsively purchasing a pasta machine.
> 
> Yes, really.

“Scones!”

Francis looked up from his computer, irritated at the commotion outside his usually quiet corner office at the end of the hall. He stood, walking to the door and peering out.

“Look, Francis, James brought scones!” One of the new hires passed by and held one up, smiling. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”

Francis grumbled a response. Yes. Scones. Scones from James. Flouncy, prancy James, the sales rep. He glanced down towards the reception desk, hoping he could avoid him.

“And so, armed with only a Swiss army knife and a culinary torch-”

_Fuck._

“I was able to free my car from the snowdrift. If I hadn’t, I surely would have frozen to death. See, I’ve still got a scar from the can opener, right there.” A tall, slender man in a white oxford and navy waistcoat had his back to Francis, leaning over the counter, the receptionist smiling up at him. He paused, looking over one shoulder, his dark hair, shiny and near shoulder-length falling across his eye. _Very Veronica Lake,_ Francis thought sourly as James used one long finger to brush it back, Francis’ heart steadfastly ignoring his mood and beating faster.__

_ _“Francis! How good to see you. Would you like a scone? Made them this morning!” James smiled shyly, looking down and back up._ _

_ _No, he did not want a scone. Well. He did want a scone. But not one from James. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right either. Francis glared at James._ _

_ _“Keep it down, I’m trying to work,” he said, turning and shutting the door firmly._ _

_ _James Fitzjames, what kind of laughable name was that? Francis had been very happy with their old sales rep, but then that bastard had gone and retired, and James, awful James, had been the replacement._ _

_ _Why did he have to be so handsome? So charming? So funny and bright and interesting? It was miserable, not knowing when he would show up. The sales reps were supposed to come on Fridays, but James showed up whenever he damn well pleased, and always armed with some kind of pastry._ _

_ _Laughter, muffled, could be heard from the other side of the door. Everyone else in the office was fully under James’ spell. Francis too, if he was being honest. He was not in the mood for brutal honesty, dwelling instead on his crabby mood, turning to the expense reports, concentrating very hard on not letting his mind wander to James and his long hair and long legs and-_ _

_ _ _God fucking awful James Fitzjames and his stupid fucking scones._ _ _

_ __ _

\- - -

The whole office had gone a little mad for baking. First it was that show. What was it? Big English Baking Contest? Francis did not care for reality competitions, preferring documentaries and home improvement shows, the occasional foreign film for when he was feeling particularly morose.

Then it was James and his damned pastries.

And then there was the blog. The Naked British Baker. One of the administrative assistants had made something, a clafoutis, and she’d sent the recipe that she’d found online the office. Soon, everyone was talking about it, _ooh_ing and _ahh_ing over the posts.

Francis pulled up the blog. The Naked British Baker, whoever they were, was both an excellent baker, and, in Francis’ opinion, a terrible writer. Most of the office was convinced it was a woman, but Francis wasn’t so sure. He’d never met a woman who would write such godawful poetry.

_Biscuits on the Trail!_

There was a photo of a tray with some kind of chocolate covered cookie taken somewhere on a hike by all appearances.

Who the hell would take biscuits and a bloody tray on a hike? _Influencers_, Francis thought, scrolling through the paragraphs of inane chatter, the blogger prattling on about the hike and how long it had been since their last trip outdoors and how nature, it truly was the cure for all life’s ills!

Five photosets later, Francis finally got to the recipe.

The instructions were thorough along with step-by-step photos. The blogger had even included some photos to show when the recipe went wrong and how to prevent it.

Francis sighed, rubbing his forehead. He wouldn’t be able to master biscuits. He could barely make brownies. Christ.

Fuck the Naked British Baker.

\- - -

Francis again found himself cursing the Naked British Baker on Sunday night. He’d forgotten about the office potluck until he was well and fully settled into his sectional with his book on maritime disasters, his small orange cat biting gently on his ankles.

He swore, sitting up and remembering the email from his assistant, Thomas. Shit. Double shit. He really didn’t need to bring something. He was the boss, after all, and he could stop by the store on the way into work, but goddammit, he wanted to make something.

“You have to learn how to cook something, anything, Francis, if you want someone to stay. Well, I guess you don’t, but you’ll have to charm them enough that they’re willing to overlook stovetop mac and cheese,” Sophia had said over their monthly dinner date.

Francis had peered at her, taking a sip of diet Coke.

“You can be rather mean, Sophia. Remind me why I wanted to marry you?”

“I think you thought these incredible breasts would keep you fully closeted.” She shimmied a little, laughing and taking a drink. She wasn’t wrong. They were impressive tits.

“Tease.”

“Grouch. Say. Have you been watching the Great British Bakeoff?”

\- - -

“Ok. Ingredients assembled.”

Francis pulled the recipe up on his phone. Bread. Bread would be easy. How difficult could bread be? He set to work, Cornelius having to be pushed off the counter repeatedly, yowling in protest.

It was 1am before Francis got to bed, but he had done it, with minimal swearing and maximum mess. He had made bread! Francis cheered to himself as he wrapped it up and tucked it away where Cornelius wouldn’t get it. He had done it. Maybe well enough to impress the Naked British Baker. It was their recipe, nestled within a blog entry about how much they loved autumn. How much? Francis had counted no less than ten photos of trees with their leaves turning.

He had done it. Take that, Sophia, Francis thought triumphantly.

\- - -

“Erm…” Thomas Jopson looked at the bread. “First time?”

“Making bread? Well,” Francis faltered. “Yeah. It was. Why? I thought it was ok.”

“Tastes fine, it’s just kind of heavy. Bread should be,” Jopson paused, clearly weighting what to say, one finger scratching his sideburns. He looked up, seeing Francis’ face, Francis trying and failing to hide that familiar, slightly queasy feeling of failure.

“It’s fine! It’s more than fine!” Jopson stuffed the bread into his mouth. “Yummy,” he said through a mouthful of bread.

A hand reached over to take a slice, long elegant fingers.

“Let’s see here.”

Francis turned, feeling his blood pressure spike. James, that asshole, clad in a black turtleneck, slacks and wine-coloured monk strap shoes. He held the bread up, his brows furrowing, dark brown eyes taking in every one of Francis’ mistakes. 

“Didn’t prove long enough,” James said matter-of-factly, tossing his head back so his hair was out of his eyes. “How long did you let it rise?”

Francis shrugged helplessly. “I was in a hurry. It was late. Can’t remember what the recipe said.” He looked away, his face turning red, his voice biting with anger.

“Which recipe?” James took a bite. “Tastes very good,” he said, chewing slowly. “Crust is nice, but it should be light and fluffy. This is heavy.”

“What does it matter what recipe I used? I fucked up bread. But please, James, tell me how else I may improve things? Please. I await your tutelage.” He turned on his heel and stomped off.

“Something I said?” James asked Jopson, bewilderment in his voice.

Stupid fucking James. Stupid fucking bread.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next two weeks, Francis made exactly six more attempts at baking, each time turning to that ridiculous blog. Ridiculous, very well-organized blog, scrolling through absurd postings.

_I just fell in love with macaroons whilst I was sunning myself on the beaches of Ibiza! Coconuts are just marvelous, aren’t they? Also very dangerous! Why, last time I was vacationing there, I nearly got brained by one! Fell just inches from my head!_

“I don’t think there are coconuts in Ibiza,” Francis muttered, looking over the mess of macaroons. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, Cornelius eyeing him from the counter. “Don’t even consider it. These are not for cats, and if they were, they would not be for ones who bite.” Cornelius meowed and began washing himself.

Thinking about Ibiza and baking unfortunately brought James to mind. James, Francis bet, he didn’t burn and peel the way Francis did. Bet he turned a pleasing tan shade. Francis could see him, diving into the beautiful blue ocean, shaking his hair out like a shaggy dog as he emerged from the water, his hair and swim trunks drying in the sun.

Yes, Francis had dated men before, but no one like James. Maybe that’s why he got so tongue-tied, resorting to bad habits. It was often easier to push anyone away rather than let them in, taking years for Francis to even feel like he could be civil to Sophia after she dumped him.

“I behaved rather badly, you know that. Very badly, and I’m sorry,” she’d said.

“Yeah, you did rather treat me like dirt. But, I suppose…” he’d looked thoughtfully at her.

“We would have killed each other?”

“We really would have. Cheers to bad engagements saving us from worse marriages, eh?”

It would have been a terrible marriage. Francis counted himself very lucky indeed to have her has a friend. She was also very good, too good at ferreting things out, calling right as Francis was contemplating macaroons and Ibiza and James in swimwear.

“You’re making what?”

“Macaroons.”

“Francis,” she said, the speaker tinny. “Is this about a man?”

Francis paused a moment too long.

“I’ll be over in a half-hour.”

\- - -

“Tell me everything.” Cornelius had curled up on her lap. Cornelius, who hated everyone, tolerated Francis, but loved Sophia. Francis noted that the cat had started drooling on her. Disgusting, evil animal.

Haltingly, Francis told Sophia about James. Tall, slim James. James and his pastries. His stories. His large beautiful eyes.

“Let me get this straight.” Sophia’s face was screwed up as though trying to solve a complicated riddle. “You’d like to make sweet-”

“-don’t you fucking dare-”

“pastries, Francis, I don’t have a dirty mind like you do. Beautiful pastries with James and the way you’re going to win his heart is by being an absolute shit to him?”

“No.” Francis chewed his lip. “Not a complete shit. I don’t know. I don’t know what to say to him.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Swimmingly.”

Sophia sighed.

“Francis. You can’t just,” she gestured frustratedly, Cornelius fleeing her lap. “I know you don’t want to get hurt, but you can’t just wall yourself out. And I know you have the capacity to make friends and to be exceptionally charming. Maybe not in the way this flouncy swan of a man is, but you are. You’re funny when you’re not being mean. Although sometimes you’re funny when you’re being mean, too. Make him laugh. And not,” she held up a finger, “by making fun of him.”

She stood, walking over to where Francis was hunched over his baking tray.

“You could try being nice, you know,” she suggested gently.

“I’m trying to make him macaroons.” Francis took a bite. “Besides, if I keep him at arm’s length with my terrible baking, I can’t get hurt.”

“Suppose I can’t argue with that sound logic.”

Francis took another bite.

“These are terrible. Stupid baking blog.”

\- - -

The more he baked, the more Francis began to begrudgingly enjoy the blog. It was less hate-reading and more actual reading.

He rolled his eyes at the story of the Naked British Baker at Everest Base Camp and their struggles with altitude sickness, but by the end, he was hanging on every word, desperate to know whether the bake turned out ok. (It did not – the ingredients were stale and the Naked British Baker did not properly account for altitude.)

He was making his third batch of macaroons when Thomas Blanky showed up, pounding on the door.

“What in all the realms of the living and the dead are you fucking doing? We’re supposed to be going out.” When he saw Francis’ puzzled look, he sighed. “Of course you forgot. The engagement party?”

“Shit.” Francis had forgotten that Ed had finally proposed, that soft-headed ox of a man.

“What have you been doing all day?” Blanky asked.

“Making macaroons,” Francis mumbled.

“Making a mess, more like.” Blanky looked over. “Looks like shit. Don’t think that’s what macarons are supposed to look like. Aren’t they supposed to be little sandwiches?”

“These are macar_oons_, you peasant.”

Blanky took one.

“Tastes pretty good. Well, are you coming along?”

Francis threw a few into a Tupperware container and hurried along.

\- - -

God DAMN it.

Jopson had invited everyone from the office, including James. Unfortunately, the pool hall was massive, so there would be no hiding from him amongst the crowd.

“He doesn’t even work here,” Francis hissed at Blanky, his insides twisting uncomfortably.

“Who?”

“The tall chap with the, er, hair. Over by the bar. No, don’t look!”

James had spotted Francis, raising a hand tentatively in greeting.

“Very shiny.” Blanky grinned. “You fancy him, don’t you?”

Francis spluttered out a strangled “no,” fully aware of the scarlet shade his face was turning.

“Come on then, let’s show him your macrons.”

“That’s the president of France, you idiot, these are, stop. Stop. What are you doing?” Blanky was near dragging him towards the bar, succeeding even with his bad leg.

“Thomas Blanky. Seems you know Francis, don’t you?” He stuck out his hand towards James, who shook it, looking bemused. It was the expression most people wore when they met Blanky, who cut an impressive if unconventional figure, his hair wild and grey, his laugh loud and piercing, always with a joke, usually something extremely blue.

“Oh, yes, we, ah, work together.” James gave a half-smile. “I’m a sales rep and Francis’ office is one of my clients.”

“Wonderful. Francis and I go way back. In the service for many years. Back when Francis was still engaged to Sophia. Her uncle owned the company,” Blanky explained.

If Francis could weaponize his thoughts, Blanky would be nothing but a pile of ash.

“Oh,” James said, his eyebrows up, smiling wider.

“But then it was Ross, after Sophia, you know,” Blanky continued, leaning in as though they were old friends, Francis feeling positively murderous. “He’s off at a research station in Antarctica, isn’t he?”

“Thomas, I’m sure James is not interested in this,” Francis said, grinding his teeth.

James was biting his lip, smiling, his eyes mischievous. “Of course not.”

“Well, good seeing you, James-”

Blanky grabbed for the Tupperware container.

“Francis made macaronis. Would you like one?”

“Ma-ca-roons. Jesus Christ.”

James took one, inspecting it. Francis wanted to snatch it out of his hands, watching impotently as James appraised the macaroon, finding it wanting. 

This was not how Francis had intended it to go. In his head, the scenario he’d run over a hundred times while baking the damn things, it was just him and James. He’d ask James if he liked macaroons, a normal everyday conversation topic, nothing strange about that. And then James would say yes, like he always did in Francis’ imagination. Francis could pull out the Tupperware container, casually, of course, but here was Blanky, just fucking ruining it.

Finally, James took a bite. His eyebrows went up again.

“Good bake, Francis. Very good. Could use a bit of work on presentation, but very good.” He popped the rest of it in his mouth, smiling.

Christ. Francis felt like an entire boatload of butterflies had taken flight inside him.

“Where’d you get the recipe?” He was brushing crumbs off his lips, light pink and slightly chapped.

“Erm. A blog. The Naked British Baker.”

James coughed on the last bit of macaroon. “Sorry. Down the wrong pipe.” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Good blog, too.”

“Post a little too much fluff. Could use an editor with a heavy hand. And some of the older posts, the ones with all the poetry, those ones are pretty rough.”

“I dunno.” James looked down. “I kind of like it. Had a real, um, amateurish purity to it.”

Francis snorted. “Rubbish poems.”

James seemed to wilt a bit, Francis seeing his opportunity to exit, and taking it.

“Best be off, got work tomorrow.” He grabbed the Tupperware lid from Blanky.

“It’s 5:30,” James said.

“Yes, and time waits for no man. Aren’t you coming, Thomas?”

Blanky just grinned. “I’m having a great time with my new friend. See you round, Frank.”

Francis gave Blanky his most venomous look before turning and walking briskly away, dashing off a quick text.

_If you do…anything, I will kill you and make it look like an accident._ Francis spotted Edward and Jopson, striding towards them.

“Congratulations, both of you!”

Jopson pulled him into a hug, thanking him. “We’re both very happy, aren’t we, Edward?”

Edward smiled, a rare thing to earn from such a taciturn man, shaking Francis’ hand.

“Take my advice,” Francis said, “and elope. Would you like a cookie?”

Edward and Jopson each took one, complimenting Francis on them.

Francis smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said to Jopson.

“It’s only 5:30.”

“Yes, and Cornelius gets very cranky if I don’t feed him right at six.” Francis felt his phone vibrate. It was from Blanky.

_I am making you look GREAT which is a struggle. Herculean. Should get combat pay. You can thank me once you’ve got this shiny man under you._

Francis dared to glance up. Blanky was grinning again, giving Francis a thumbs up. James was smiling with his head slightly cocked to the side.

Fucking Blanky. Fucking macaroons. Fuck _everything._


	3. Chapter 3

Another week, another blog post about fall, this one with a chocolate banana bread recipe that promised to be “so easy, even a beginning baker can do it!”

_There’s no way to screw up presentation, because it won’t last long no matter how it looks!_

That felt personal, Francis considerably cranky as he scrolled through paragraph after paragraph devoted to big chunky sweaters and scarves.

Still, he made the banana bread.

Turned out pretty good.

Pleased with himself, he wrapped it up in tinfoil, but not before sending a picture to Sophia.

_Oooh, looks good! Save a slice for James!_

\- - -

Francis spent most of the day in his office, buried in paperwork. Three coworkers stopped by to compliment the banana bread he’d left in the break room.

“Oh! Harry! Completely forgot,” he said as Harry Goodsir was nearly out the door. “Next week, it’s your birthday, right? Take Friday off. We can manage.”

“But sir-”

“No. And stop calling me sir. I know Franklin insisted on it, but that’s not how I want this company run. You know that. It’s been, what, four years? You don’t owe me fealty. Besides.” Francis pursed his lips. “‘Sir’ makes me feel old. Anyway, I know you and Silna have been busy since Muriel turned, how old is she, three?”

“Three next month.” Harry smiled.

“We’ll be fine. I insist.”

“Thank you sir- er, Francis. Oh. James stopped by, left something in the kitchen for all of us.”

Francis felt his jubilant mood deflate. Thank god he’d been too busy to see James. He groaned and rolled his eyes.

“He really is a very nice man. And he makes such wonderful pastries for us,” Harry said, Francis groaning again and waving him off.

Christ on a bike. He sat back down, rubbing his face with one hand. Sophia was right. He couldn’t keep being a miserable asshole to James. He also couldn’t keep denying his feelings. Coming out in his forties hadn’t been particularly easy, but this absolute unsteadiness he felt around James was utterly intolerable.

As it happened, he didn’t have to wait long.

\- - -

A soft knock at the door brought Francis out of the land of spreadsheets and back to his office. It was late, most everyone having left for the day.

“Come in.”

He glanced up, the door opening slowly, James stepping in.

Francis felt his stomach lurch. He looked around frantically. Had his office always been this messy? The answer, of course, was yes, but it looked even worse under a critical eye, books stacked everywhere, a pile of shoes in the corner, knick-knacks all over the place. Francis’ desk was nothing but stacks of paper, leaving no bare surface

“Did you need something?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

James stepped in fully, closing the door behind him, a paper plate in one hand with a scone on it. God he looked good in that sweater, cranberry coloured with a cable knit pattern, dark trousers and Chelsea boots. 

“Francis, I hope you won’t be insulted…” James looked down, his hair, that gorgeous hair flowing about his shoulders, his mouth bracketed by those long, deep hashmarks. He paused, rocking back onto his heels.

“What is it?” His tone, though, he could work on that. He coughed, thinking, wildly trying to figure out what to say. Francis had imagined James alone in his office, but this was certainly not how he thought it would go. For one, the office would have been much tidier, and there were usually far fewer clothes involved.

James seemed to square himself, taking in a deep breath.

“Why are you so mean to me?”

Francis felt like he’d been slapped.

“I’m not, I am not-” he stuttered out.

“You are.” James’ eyes met his, angry and hurt. “You’re rude and you cut me off and you won’t look me in the eye and you make these comments you think I won’t hear. It gets back to me, you have to know it does. I don’t know what I did, if I said something, I’m sorry, I’m very sorry for it. But it is rather awful to have to come to this office, surrounded by people I like to see and then hear some flip remark about my appearance. I’m not made of stone.”

James looked sadly back down at the plate.

An angry heat rippled out across Francis’ cheeks and down his neck, his shirt collar pinching in. He could hear himself spluttering over an apology, failing miserably, before falling back to default and glaring at James.

“Okay, I can see that this was a mistake,” James said, holding one hand up, palm out, the way one might if one were approached by an angry moose. “Here. You don’t deserve it, you cranky distasteful man. You must have been very hard to love as a child. But I saved an extra scone for you, you jerk.” James set it carefully down on the desk, turning to go.

“Oh. I’ll be speaking with my manager next week. See if we can’t get another sales rep to replace me.”

And with that, he slipped out the door.

_Fuck._

A dull certainty settled on Francis like a migraine. If he didn’t do something, and immediately, this would be utterly unfixable. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Francis hustled out the office, down the long corridor, spotting the tall figure striding towards the exit. He broke into a run.

“James! Wait!”

James paused, sighing heavily before turning to see Francis nearly stumbling up to him.

“What, here to tell me what a vapid braggart I am?” He folded his arms, grimacing.

“No.” Francis was out of breath. James seemed to have that effect on him. “I’m sorry,” the words heavy and uncomfortable on his tongue.

James was silent.

“Look.” Francis stood to his full height, taking in another breath before speaking, trying, vainly, to get his nerves to settle. His ears burned. “Let me take you out for a drink. Well. I don’t really drink. Coffee. Please. Let me explain. Please, James.”

James seemed to thaw a bit at every “please,” so Francis tried it again.

“Please. You don’t owe me a damn thing. But…please.”

James sighed again, his posture still stiff and guarded. His mouth, though, was quirking into a half-smile.

“Don’t make me regret this, Francis Crozier.”

\- - -

Nerves struck again as they found a seat at a local coffee shop, a litany of curse words rattling around in Francis’ head. It was easier if he focused on the coffee cup in front of him, the imprint on the hard plastic lid, the jaunty seasonal pattern on the cup with red and yellow leaves, the “FRANCE” the barista had written on the side above his order.

“Well?” James prompted. Francis glanced up. That was an error. He couldn’t do that again. 

“I, um,” Francis’ mouth didn’t seem to be working very well. Neither did his brain.

“Hm. Let’s start with all of the things you’ve said about my looks.”

“Don’t really remember,” Francis mumbled.

“Lucky for you, I do. One time you said that my hair was, I think the word you used was poncy.” James was ticking them off on his fingers, each one a dull arrow to Francis’ very wounded pride. “Or the time you said that I looked like a washed-up J. Crew model. Or the time you said my face was nothing but a bunch of right angles.”

Francis’ face burned with humiliation. He wanted so badly to stand up and walk right out. It would be easy, criminally easy. No. He would stay and face his punishment.

“I’m jealous of you,” he said, his voice small. That was not the whole of it, but James didn’t need to know that.

James drew back in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why? I’m not trying to put you on.” James’ voice was, oh, that lovely baritone. Francis could listen to him read stereo instructions. “You’ve a real job. A career. A position of power. You’re well, assuming what your friend Blanky told me is true, and by the way, there’s an interesting fellow, Blanky, you put this company in the black after years of running in the red. He said Franklin was this close to declaring bankruptcy before he died and you, you pulled them all out of the wilderness.”

Francis felt a stab of remorse. Blanky had done a good job of pitching Francis after all. It was true, but Francis didn’t like telling that story about himself. He didn’t want to brag and he really did not want to disparage Sophia’s uncle, but it was true, all of it. Franklin had always liked to say “God will provide!” as though that would have gotten the creditors off their back. 

Francis had held a long meeting with all the staff the week after the funeral. “I intend to get us out of this,” he’d said, making eye contact with everyone in the room. “We provide. We provide for ourselves. And we get out of this as a team, understood?”

“It was nothing. I couldn’t have done it alone,” Francis deflected, finding it slightly easier to look up now.

“You have a real job,” James repeated. “I’m just a salesman. Haven’t held down a job for more than two years.” He ran his hand through his hair.

The noise in the coffee shop seems to lull a bit around them, Francis’ shoulders unhitching. He was able to look at James, really look at him, still only for short periods though.

“Yeah, well, people like you. You’re well-traveled. Good-looking. Very charming.”

“Ah.” James’ eyes sparkled. “So you do eavesdrop when I’m trading stories with your receptionist.” He leaned forward. “You think I’m charming, Francis?”

Francis felt his face flush again. Bloody Irish colouring.

“To some people, I suppose.”

“Oh, and here we were, making such good progress.”

Francis looked up. James was smirking and shaking his head.

“I am sorry, James. Please…please don’t change offices on my account. I know I’ve behaved abominably. I’ll make it up to you. The rest of my team, they’d be very cross with me if I was the reason you left.”

James was still shaking his head.

“I should quit anyway just to prove my point.” He smiled. “But I won’t. I am going to hold you do that promise. Maybe make you pick me up from the airport-”

“Done.”

“In the dead of winter on an early morning flight. And housesit my chinchilla. She needs allergy shots and she bites.”

“Yeah, ok.” He’d need to stock up on bandaids.

James laughed. “Francis, I’m kidding. I don’t have a chinchilla. And I’m not going to make you play cabbie. And that last one, that crack about my face. That one’s actually kind of funny. Truce?” He held out his hand.

Francis smiled, a real smile, his entire being warm. He reached over to shake James’ hand. 

“Truce.”


	4. Chapter 4

To truly enjoy his work was a novel feeling for Francis. He hadn’t wanted this job, not really, but when Franklin died, there was no one else to step up. Ross had fucked off to Antarctica, and Sophia had called him, nearly incomprehensible through her tears. She had known the absolute dire straits the company was in. They were considering trying to force Franklin out if he wouldn’t voluntarily retire. 

And then he’d gone off on a hike in Canada (“the fresh air does wonders for one’s constitution!”) and somehow gotten eaten by a rabid bear. They’d only found parts of him.

The funeral was closed-casket.

Franklin had never given his full support to Francis, who in turn had never understood or acknowledged how deeply soul-crushing it was to work for someone who held him in such low regard. Then he’d died, and it was a year out to sea, working late into the evening and every weekend before Francis felt like he could finally breathe, the company upright again.

And now…he’d nearly skipped into work, Jopson’s jaw dropping when Francis had answered a cheerful “never better!” when asked how he was doing this fine Monday.

Francis had been out all afternoon in meetings, stopping by the office to drop off his files and a present for Muriel. The little girl loved whales. He picked up something for Jopson as well. God knows it hadn’t been easy to be his assistant all those years.

On his desk was a paper plate with some biscotti and a note.

_Made sure to save a few for you. You’re lucky, your staff nearly stampeded me getting to them._

Still a flouncy braggart. Francis took a bite, pausing. Maybe they had tried to stampede him. This biscotti was quite good.

\- - -

_Crème Brûlée!_

_This was a childhood favourite of mine, and when I was last in France, I had the opportunity to study under some of the finest dessert chefs. The flavor takes me back, and although it’s a lighter dessert, I think it’s perfect for a chilly fall day! Now, if you’ll indulge me, I recently discovered some more of my old poetry…_

Francis scrolled down.

The poetry. It rhymed. And that was about the only generous thing that could be said about it. It was atrocious.

He read another stanza, wondering if the author was putting him on. How could some unintentionally write such terrible poems? Francis had to stop, the secondhand embarrassment making his chest nearly hurt. Fortunately, there was not the usual glut of generic fall photos before the recipe.

Several hours and three batches later, he felt even more lost, the kitchen a nightmare of sugar and eggshells. The first batch was overcooked, the second under, and the third, the eggs had just gone all wrong.

He could ask James for help. Maybe. That was a possibility.

Cornelius rubbed his ankle. He looked down, the cat giving a howl, swiping at Francis’ Achilles before running off.

\- - -

“I could come over, you know.”

Francis’ head snapped up. He’d been explaining to James the problem with the brûlées. Francis had tried a loaf of bread again on Sunday, bringing it in for the office. And for James. Not that he would ever admit that, even under pain of torture.

“I’ve got a torch, one of the little culinary blowtorches. Can show you how to do it under the broiler, and then,” James looked around conspiratorially, “we can use the torch and no one will know the wiser.” He’d taken a piece of the bread, eyeing it. Francis felt nervous, the way he’d felt when he’d picked out the ring for Sophia. He was being foolish. It was just bread. And crème brûlées.

“Erm.” He coughed. _Courage, Francis. Courage._ “Sure. You allergic to cats?”

James smiled.

“No. I like cats.” He bit into the bread, chewing slowly, brushing the crumbs off his dark turtleneck. “Good bake, Francis. How about Sunday?”

Francis smiled and nodded, but inside he was nothing but panic.

Christ. Christ, what had he gotten himself into?

\- - -

“What do I do?” He had Sophia on speaker while he straightened his kitchen again.

“What do you mean? You make beautiful baking magic! And then you make beautiful sweet love to that, what did you call him? Sex on legs. You’re going to have to send me a picture.”

“You don’t understand. He’s lovely and I look like a toad.” Francis rubbed his eyes. This was going to go so badly. “And Cornelius, what if he does what he did to my last boyfriend?”

Sophia was laughing. “Right. How could I forget? Look, Francis, I don’t know that there’s anything I can say that’s going to convince you otherwise, but you are good-looking in a, hm, like one of those old-timey sea captains. Very moody. And just keep your bedroom door closed.”

Francis buried his face in his hands, groaning.

“Dear, I can’t see you, but I’m guessing you’re doing that thing where you’ve got your head on your hands because you’re just a little overwhelmed. You’re going to be fine.” She laughed again. “If you told me that I’d helping my ex-fiancé shag his sales rep, I’d have told you to fuck right off.”

“Thank you, Sophia. I mean it.”

“Ah well.” She was quiet. “I owe you for saving the company. Uncle was…he didn’t truly know your worth. Neither did I. I’ll try not to make that mistake again. Auntie won’t ever say it, but she’s thankful too. Kiss Cornelius for me.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Francis retorted.

“Good luck, you big oaf.”

Francis looked around, panic rising again. James had given Francis his mobile number in case there were any problems. He’d texted James his address, contemplating begging off. They could reschedule. Maybe.

A text came in. Sophia.

_DON’T YOU DARE CANCEL, FRANCIS RAWDON MOIRA CROZIER_

The doorbell rang.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Francis muttered, taking a last swipe at the counter. “You behave, or I’ll skin you and line my coat collar with you,” he said to Cornelius as he went to the door.

“Morning, Francis!” James was, it wasn’t underdressed. He’d look good in anything. Or nothing. He’d look very good in nothing. Today he was wearing a faded band tee, dark jeans, and red Converse. Very fetching. Francis felt a bit sloppy in his old button-up with the frayed collar.

“I brought the torch and I also thought I’d teach you how to do frosting. I’ve got a cake I baked. We can decorate it together,” he said, smiling. Very unsporting of James to be taller than him so Francis had to keep looking up slightly. “Oh, hello cat!”

Francis closed the door behind him. “That’s Cornelius.”

James deposited his things on the kitchen counter before bending down to pet the cat, who was making little begging noises.

“No, don’t-”

James let out a noise of pain, Cornelius having bitten him on the end of his long nose. He started to laugh.

“Oh I like him. He’ll keep me on my toes.”

Francis had assumed he would watch James work, but James had other plans.

“No, Francis,” he said, beckoning him over. “Together. We learn together.”

Working with James, Francis felt like he was all thumbs. James had the grace of a dancer, all conservation of movement.

“Where’d you get Cornelius?” he asked, setting out the ramekins.

“Former roommate. He moved out, got the cat, and called me in a rage. Said he couldn’t live with a terrorist in his home. Only time I heard him swear. He’s in Africa now, on some bloody foolish neocolonialist mission trip. Those poor people, they’ve got enough to worry about without him trying to teach them about Jesus through watercolors.”

James laughed. “I don’t know, he’s kind of growing on me.”

“Do you want a cat?” Francis asked, cuffing his sleeves. He looked up, James’ eyes darting away from his forearms, a pretty blush coloring his cheeks. Francis also didn’t fail to notice James brushing up against him as he looked over Francis’ work, slight and very, very brief.

“He, um.” Francis chuckled. “He drove off my last boyfriend. At least partly.”

“Go on.” James moved to the sink to rinse his hand. “Don’t mind me.” His hand skirted Francis’ low back as he moved past him in the small kitchen. Francis could feel his ears turning red.

“Ross liked to sleep naked.”

James’ eyebrows went up, smiling. His eyes crinkled up when he smiled, encouraging Francis to keep him smiling.

“I was in the shower. Cornelius snuck under the sheets and…” Francis started to laugh. “Bit him on the balls.”

James burst out laughing. “He didn’t!”

“Scratched him up pretty good too. Spent the afternoon slathering him in Neosporin and bandaids and the only ones I had were Star Wars patterns.”

“Oh Francis, you really are too much.”

Francis blushed, he was sure, all the way down to his toes.

With the exception of Cornelius continuing to pester them both, the morning and afternoon went wonderfully. Francis found himself laughing more than he usually did, and joking far more than he usually did. James did like to brag, but Francis didn’t seem to mind hearing all the places James had been.

“Had a bit of a rough go growing up,” James said quietly as he sprinkled the sugar on top of each ramekin. Adopted by family friends, he’d lived under the shadow of a father he’d both despised and desperately needed approval from.

“Then he died and I felt like I’d lost any kind of anchor to this world. I’ve been off on my own since then, traveling, a bit of this, a bit of that.”

Francis felt his heart unstop, just a little. He knew what it felt to need so badly the love of an unavailable father. He’d turned inward, lashing out when people got too close. During a fight, one of their last ones before he’d packed up, Ross had said that there was no knowing the real Francis underneath that anger and need for validation. James, it seemed, had chosen to simply run away. It was certainly cleaner, Francis supposed.

“Anyway, I just, you know, up and leave when it gets too hard,” James said flatly, handing Francis a spoon. The crème brûlées were done, the afternoon slipping past. “The top should have a nice good crack to it.”

“How’s that doing a runner bit going for you?” Francis asked gently.

“Oh, fine. Just fine. Can’t get hurt if I leave first, can I?” He tapped the top of the crème brûlée, the crust cracking, making a small noise of approval. James took a spoonful, holding it up to inspect it, shaking the spoon slightly before it disappeared into his mouth. “Delicious.”

Francis ate his slowly. He didn’t want James to leave. Fortunately, they still had the cake.

“Why the sudden interest in baking?” James asked as Francis got his hand mixer out.

“Er, well. My ex, Sophia. Friends now. She pointed out that I wasn’t going to score any points with someone I was courting if all I could make was biscuits. Dunno what she was on about,” he grumbled. “Everyone loves biscuits. And this is going to sound silly, but…I want people to like me, the way they like you.”

“Bribery through baking! You’ve discovered my secrets!” James shook a finger at Francis before standing behind him as Francis mixed the frosting ingredients together. Francis was very glad for the counter to lean on and the apron. James did not need to witness the effect he was having on him, nearly undoing him on the spot. Francis explained, cautiously, how Franklin had held the broken engagement against Francis even though Franklin had been against them dating in the first place and even though Sophia had been the one doing the breaking off.

“I’ve worked very hard since then. I’m not him. For all of his failings, and there were many, he was…” Francis paused. Even with Franklin dead these many years, the man still loomed large, the relationship no less complicated than when he was alive. “When he spoke, people listened. I’m not charismatic. I can’t do small talk. I’m not good at any of that. It’s a miracle really that I’m still running this damn place.”

“You don’t see it, do you?” James was very close, too close, really, much too close. Francis could feel the heat from his body on his back. Christ _and_ fuck. He didn’t chance a look at him. “You’re a cranky arse, but your people, they love you. They really do. Even when you’re in a mood. Goodsir, he just raves about you. Calls you a character. Also says you’re the best boss he’s had.”

“He’s just saying that,” Francis groused. He turned on the mixer to avoid continuing the conversation, hoping it would put an end to the topic. It was as uncomfortable as it was gratifying to hear, wondering how much he’d internalized Franklin’s belief that Francis would make a shoddy leader.

Being here with James, too. Francis had not really considered how intimate an act it would be to teach someone how to bake, but it made sense. A pre-heating oven warming the room. The steady hand needed to mix ingredients just so. The smell of something baking just easing all of the tension away. A kitchen really was the heartbeat of a home, wasn’t it? Here they were, together, Francis’ walls tumbling down. And all it took was crème brûlée.

James’ hand reached over to still the mixer.

“All done,” James said in his ear, over the noise of the mixer. What an absolute tease. Francis’ eyes spotted an angry mark along the webbing between James’ thumb and forefinger.

“What happened there?”

“Burned myself. Was trying to do some fancy candy work.” James stepped to the side, rummaging around for a spatula.

“Why do you like baking?” Francis asked, glad that James’ attentions were elsewhere.

“I find it soothing,” he replied. “Very gratifying. Baking shows patience, that you can pay attention to details, feeds my deep need for perfection. It’s a way I show people close to me how I feel without all the messiness that goes alongside.” He looked back over at the bowl of frosting, taking one of the beaters from the mixer and scraping the extra frosting back into the bowl. 

Satisfied, he held it up, running a finger along the inside of the beater, coming away with a dollop of white frosting on his fingertip. “And sharing a dessert with someone?” James grinned wickedly before putting his finger in his mouth, pursing his lips around the tip as he closed his eyes, emitting a low _mmf_ sound as the finger came away clean.

“Oh, that’s good,” he murmured.

_Yes, it is,_ Francis thought.

\- - -

Later, after cake frosting, there were tales from James’ time in Asia (“I hiked across the Himalayas, you know. For fun.” “Of course you did.”) and the story of his bullet scar (“Don’t tell anyone, but it happened when I was asleep. Woke up in pain and it turned out some idiot outside had been celebrating with his gun!” “Your secret is safe with me.”) and, Francis’ favorite, he’d decided, James’ time crossing the Pacific, booking passage on a freighter ship (“No fresh food after the first three days. Thought I was going to die of scurvy, eating nothing but tinned food. My guts rebelled for months.” “What a way to go, though, shitting yourself.”). James left the cake, most of it, taking a generous slice for himself.

Francis sent a picture of the cake to Sophia and Blanky.

_Nice cake,_ Blanky texted him. _You bang him yet? Not getting any younger! Wait, Francis, have you forgotten how?_

Sophia was nicer. _That’s lovely, Francis. See what happens when you don’t assume everyone has it in for you? Now go get your man!_

Francis smiled. He wasn’t sure what was next, but he would definitely be seeing more of James. The fool had forgotten the little culinary torch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A former roommate of mine had a cat who, one time, climbed up another roommate's leg when he was just out of the shower and bit him right on the nuts. She also bit someone else on their nose, and of course, she bit the hell out of me.
> 
> Kinda miss that cat.
> 
> For those who don't know, the real JFJ wrote some poetry under an assumed name and it is not what I would call good, but god bless him for trying.


	5. Chapter 5

_Frangipane Tarts!_

Francis read the post, the entire thing. There was a long description of the Naked British Baker being nearly savaged by a jungle cat whilst in Indonesia, and how _I nearly died from the infection, and yet here I am, only a daring set of scars to show._

The recipe was too complicated for Francis, who was feeling a little outbaked. He’d gone back to bread, something he felt he was getting particularly good at.

“You’re not the Naked British Baker, are you?” he asked James idly one morning in the office breakroom.

“Me? No. Why would you think that?”

“The office is convinced it’s a woman, and I disagree. I think it’s probably a man. Whoever he or she or they are, they’re not a bad writer. Pretty good, actually, and you’re really the only man I know who bakes, so…”

“And so does half of London. Honestly. You must meet more people. Besides, I’m a terrible writer and I don’t like sharing my recipes, except with you, of course. They are precious to me. I prefer to write poetry.”

“Poetry!” Francis nearly choked on his tea. “Poetry?”

James frowned. “Yes, Francis, and it’s not bad, I’ll have you know.” He opened the Tupperware container. “Scones again, I’m afraid.”

Francis snatched one up. “Excellent. I do love your scones.” He took a second one, winking at James before going back to his office.

\- - -

“What is your favorite pastry, Francis?” James had stopped by one afternoon to drop off a springform pan and a dessert, his overcoat soaked with late autumn rain.

“Pie. Lemon meringue. My mother made it anytime we got invited to a family event.”

James frowned. “Not very Irish.”

“What were you expecting, a potato with a little sugar on top?” Francis looked in the container. James had made a fancy torte, dense and rich. “Can I read some of your poetry sometime?”

James shook his head. “Don’t think you’d care for it much, Francis. Enjoy your torte.”

\- - -

The next month, Francis was extremely busy, out of the office for meetings with investors, and a holiday party that needed planning. December was never his favorite time of month, with the cold and the damp, all the false cheer deeply unpleasant to his general disposition towards grouchiness. Still, he’d find something on his desk when he inevitably missed James.

“Oooh, Christmas biscuits!” Sophia’s hand sneaked towards the tin, which was sitting on Francis’ kitchen counter.

“Only one. The note said they were specially made for me. Which means James may have poisoned them.”

“Maybe because you’re taking so long to ask him out. Or kiss him. Or shag him.” She chewed the cookie. “God, these are good.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Francis moaned, Cornelius headbutting his ankles.

“Francis, have you forgotten how you pursued me?” Sophia grinned, showing off most of her very white, very even teeth. “There wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do or try. It was…I don’t think you fully realize what it’s like to have your complete, undivided attention. It’s overwhelming, and I mean that in the best possible way. Hell of a turn-on.”

Francis sighed. “I’m not that man anymore.”

“Pshaw. And stop playing dumb. Put your brain to good use. You’ll think of something. You do realize, though, that if you screw this up, no more scones. Or biscotti. Or Christmas tree cookies!”

“Oh, fuck off.” Francis grabbed for a cookie shaped like an angel, frowning at it before biting its head off.

\- - -

_Was there anything that James didn’t look good in?_ Francis wondered jealously. James had stopped by to drop off a baking tray (“yours is an abomination and should be taken out back and shot”) and say hi to Cornelius, who had decided his new goal was to steal James’ footwear, the small cat dragging off one dress shoe before James had spotted him, shooing him away. While he was there, James had showed Francis some pictures of his trip to India last year.

“Ah, damn,” James muttered, a photo of, was that James? Francis couldn’t quite tell.

“No! Show me,” Francis demanded.

James sighed, holding the phone back out. It _was_ James, at a Halloween party, in a very short, very tight dress, his long hair straightened. Was he wearing eyeliner? Another man in some kind of medieval royalty costume was next to him, with his arm around James’ waist. James scrolled through more photos. Atrocious lighting, James holding up a shot glass. James across that man’s lap. A selfie with their faces close together, James’ eyes a bit sleepy from alcohol.

“Dundy. My ex,” James said sadly. “Bit of a flake. Ate up everything I baked and then some.” 

Francis felt a stab of jealously. This Dundy fellow was handsome, with lovely wavy hair like James’, only all grey.

“And you broke up because?” James looked over, startled by the question. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to answer that.”

“No. It’s all right.” James took in a deep breath, scrolling past a photo, James pressing his lips to Dundy’s forehead, the plastic crown a bit lopsided. “Remember how I said I usually leave before…feelings get involved? Dundy was different. I stuck around. Wanted to get serious and he kept brushing me off. Finally we had a real row, yelling and cry, and I told him I wasn’t getting any younger, and that I loved him, and…” James paused.

“You know what he said to me? He said he was fond of me too. Fond of me. Like I was a favourite childhood pet. So I threw him over, packed my bags, and, ah.” 

He’d finally gotten to the end of the Halloween photos. “I went off on holiday. For three months.” A photo of two very long, tanned legs stretched out on a beach, blue water in the distance. “Ibiza.”

Francis nodded soberly. “I am sorry, James. That sounds difficult.”

James sighed again, resting his head briefly on Francis’ shoulder. 

“Thank you. You’ve been a very good friend, Francis, now that you’ve directed your ire elsewhere.”

Could they just stay like this? Forever? Francis wanted to slip his arm around James’ waist. Goddamn, James smelled good. Like a boulangerie.

“I really ought to tell you, though,” James said, sitting up. “My contract with the company is up at the end of the year. Thinking about pulling up stakes again.” He looked over at Francis pensively.

“Where to?” Francis asked slowly.

“South America. Haven’t done any travelling there. Argentina is supposed to be beautiful. Can’t you just see me on the pampas, riding a llama?”

“Don’t think they let you ride llamas, James. Can I ask why?” Francis felt his chest constrict. _Can’t I make you stay?_

James exhaled slowly. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. But I don’t know that I’ve got a reason to stay. Not yet, at least. Oh, not that I don’t value your company! Please don’t think that. I told you, though. I don’t have an anchor anymore. I go where the spirit moves me.”

Francis bit his lip in. He was getting very invested, too invested in James. He couldn’t help it, though. James wasn’t leaving just yet. There was, perhaps, time.

“Er, who were you dressed up as?”

James’ face was mock outrage. “You didn’t recognize me? I’m Posh Spice!”

“Oh how gauche of me,” Francis replied. “See you tomorrow? Or are you stopping by the office later this week?”

“Of course I’m coming by tomorrow.”

Francis turned, puzzled and frowning. “What do you mean of course, tomorrow?”

James shifted guiltily, running his hands through his hair. How many times had Francis dreamed of doing the same thing?

“James. What aren’t you telling me? I demand to know, otherwise you’re not getting that little kitchen torch back.” He scowled at James, the way he used to when he’d heard him spinning some tale down the hall.

“You have to promise not to say I told you. Please, Francis. Your office. They’re throwing you a little party. It’s a surprise. It’s apparently been five years since the company was back making money.”

“What? No it hasn’t.” Francis, momentarily distracted from the irritation of a party, and a surprise one at that, sat back, counting with his fingers. “One, two, three…so it has been. Hadn’t realized. It all just kind of runs together. That means it’s been at least five years since I’ve had a proper holiday.”

James looked thoughtful. “You’re not mad? You mustn’t let them know I spoiled it, will you?”

Francis reached over to put his hand on James’. It was a risk, he knew, but the man had just had his head on Francis’ shoulder. James, bless him, didn’t jerk away or say anything, though his cheeks did bloom with colour.

“I hate surprises, so I ought to thank you.” He ran his thumb in a small slow circle along where James had had that burn, mostly healed by now. “But if you really want to make it up to me,” he grinned, feeling his own face flush, “you could wear that dress to the office holiday party.”

“Dirty old man.” James put his hand on top of Francis’, squeezing once before he got up to get his coat and rescue his other shoe from Cornelius.

\- - -

Francis was nearly ready for bed, his fresh-baked bread safely tucked away from Cornelius when his phone went off. A text from James, which was unusual. They weren’t really texty-friends, mainly sending messages to confirm when James was coming over for some baking lesson.

_You still have my torch! Bring it to work tomorrow. I need it.  
Oh. Here, you perv._

A photo was attached, another one from the Halloween party. It was James, all right, standing in front of a brick wall, contrapposto, one hand on his hip and the other behind his head, winking at the camera. Francis wanted to laugh, but god, he was also more than a little turned on by it. Even in the terrible lighting, James was all long lovely legs, even longer in black high heels. There was no padding or anything else to try and make him look more womanly, so everything was on display, Francis’ eyes roving down the dress, where it scooped low in the front, showing off his collarbones and smooth, lightly muscled chest, clinging to his narrow hips, stretched taut across the groin, to the hemline, which was just long enough to be decent. 

Oof.

Something niggled in the back of his mind. Where was it James had said he’d gone on vacation after the breakup? Brazil? No. Ibiza.

Ibiza.

Oh. Oh fuck.

Francis turned his computer back on, cursing its slowness. Ibiza. Ibiza. No. Just a coincidence, surely. He pulled up the Naked British Baker blog, searching for that macaroon recipe.

_Ibiza and the coconuts._

Where was it that James said he’d gotten shot? It was while he was in Nepal on that little pleasure stroll through the Himalayas. Near…Francis searched for the entry about Everest.

He paused. Coincidence, surely. James was well-traveled and so was the mysterious baker. He sat back, unconvinced.

The burn.

Francis half-remembered something from a more recent posting, scrolling to find it. It was buried beneath another load of shitty poetry, Francis feeling more than a little guilty at the number of disparaging remarks he had made about the poems.

_Careful! Always remember that ovens get very hot! I got a little distracted while I was baking. Thinking about that cutie at work. Can I help it that I just adore grouches? Very distracting, actually. Fortunately it was on the back of my hand, not too difficult to keep on baking. If you do get burned, cold water! Any blistering and you should get yourself checked out pronto. Cheers!_

Francis was laughing. “I am not a grouch!” he said aloud, his heart soaring.

James. James Fitzjames was the Naked British Baker. Of course he was.


	6. Chapter 6

Francis got up early, mulling his options concerning James’ decision to leave, stopping by the store on the way to the office and leaving the present in the breakroom. If he’d overstepped, James would leave and that would be that, he thought. He didn’t have much time to worry though. There was the party.

He felt he was able to pull off being surprised rather well until Jopson cornered him.

“James let it slip, didn’t he? He’s so bad at keeping secrets. Don’t know why I told him.”

“No! No, I was very surprised.”

“Liar. He texted me this morning and apologized.” Jopson was grinning, toying with the ring on his left hand. “And you’re a terrible actor.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Even if I wasn’t surprised, it was very kind of you all. Rather unnecessary.” 

“Francis, you saved this damn company. You saved all our jobs. And you never asked for anything in return. Our big grumpy leader.”

Francis blushed. “Stop. Please. Have you and Ed set a date yet?”

“Fine, deflect all you want. By the way, we’re expecting you to take some vacation this year. Oh! James brought pie.”

Not just any pie. Lemon meringue. He’d remembered, Francis’ jaw clenching exquisitely, right at the hinge on the tartness of the lemon, the sour tempered by the meringue, just the right amount of crunch, the crust flaky and thin. Excellent pie. James, however, was nowhere to be found. The present was gone, though.

He ought to text James, thank him for the pie. Instead, he got buried in paperwork, so it wasn’t until late afternoon that he even had time to check his phone, a single text from James.

_That blogger you like has a new post up, I hear._

Cheeky bastard.

It had gotten posted around noon, entitled _The Art of Shooting One’s Shot with Pie._ Francis read the entire post, not simply skimming the trite descriptions of upcoming holidays. Halfway down, his breath caught in his chest.

_Baking is about showing people you care. It’s home, or what you wish home could be. It’s comfort and stability when your life is in shambles. It’s telling someone they matter even when you don’t have the words._

Francis felt his throat close up a bit.

_It’s “I’m sorry you’re having a bad day. Bad month. Bad year.” It’s “you could use a bite, you work very hard.” It’s a quiet moment, brushing crumbs away, getting frosting all over your fingers, a delicious little respite in a chaotic world._

_It’s love, pure and simple._

His eyes were very damp.

_Now that you’ve all gone off to be ill with this absolutely maudlin tripe, here’s the recipe. Perfect for your workplace crush, not that I advocate fishing off the company pier! But life is short and full of cute older ginger men who work too hard and have evil plotting cats and pretend they don’t have feelings (and are *quite* good with their hands!) and don’t they deserve pastries (and love!) too?_

_Happy Christmas._

Underneath, was a photo. Francis’ present. Such a cheeky bastard.

Francis had never been particularly good with his words, but he’d given it a go this morning, dashing off a quick note to go with the present, a deep red cashmere scarf, tucked into a bag with James’ ridiculous little torch.

_James,_

_I hope I don’t presume, and if I do, my sincerest apologies. This is me hoping you will reconsider whether to stay once your employment contract is up. _

_You said you needed an anchor. I’d like to be that for you, if you’ll have me.  
-Francis_

_P.S. There aren’t any coconuts in Ibiza. Your blog could really use an editor and I volunteer for that, too._

At the door, someone coughed.

Francis tore his eyes from the computer screen. It was James, in a white button-up, bearing, as always, a pastry. This time it was a slice of pie.

“Saved an extra piece for you, Francis. I hope you like it.” He was looking at the pie, shoulders hunched forward. He was worried, Francis realized.

All this time. Good Christ, what a fool Francis had been.

“Already had a piece at lunch. But I could be persuaded to have another,” he said, standing up. His hands were trembling. “Cute older ginger men? I’m blond.”

James looked up, his eyes sparkling. “It’s red in the sunlight. I’ve always had a weakness for redheads.” He set the plate down as Francis stepped towards him. 

“Did you like your present? The colour, I thought it would look nice, erm, with your eyes.” Francis chewed on one knuckle.

“It’s beautiful.” James was folding Francis into his arms.

“I thought, if you are going to travel somewhere, something to remind you of home, and you can layer it. It’s stupid. Probably not practical. I don’t do much traveling.”

“Francis, I don’t think I’m going to need it.”

Francis looked up, James’ eyes wide.

“You’re not leaving? Thank Christ, replacing you was going to be a nightmare.” Francis fixed his eyes on the buttons at James’ collar, his heart racing, blood rushing to his ears. James was, he was holding him. In his arms. Like a- “Am I, am I talking too much?”

James smiled and nodded.

“James, may I kiss you?” Francis asked tentatively.

“I wish you would,” James said, Francis looping his arms around James’ shoulders, James’ shoulders relaxing as he cupped Francis’ face, running a thumb along his cheek before bending in, slowly, pressing his lips to Francis’. Heat bloomed in Francis’ chest, his face hot and tingly, James holding him steady. Kissing James felt marvelous, marvelously right. He could almost hear Sophia and Blanky cheering him on.

“Would you like to go back to my place?” James asked.

Francis nodded, his tongue not particularly interested in forming words.

“Don’t forget the pie. You should eat that on the way over.” James bent in again, his breath hot along Francis’ ear. “You’ll need your strength for what I intend to do to you.”

Laughing, Francis grabbed his coat, bag, and the plate of pie.

\- - -

Francis would have done a great number of things to James on the cab ride over, but for one, there was the cabbie to contend with and secondly, there was the pie. James was content to rest his head on Francis’ shoulder and one hand on Francis’ knee as Francis finished the dessert.

James’ flat was a cozy one-bedroom, filled to the brim with the spoils of travel. If Francis wasn’t mistaken, there was an authentic bicorn hat from the royal navy on one of the bookcases, and some kind of sword on the wall. The kitchen was massive, brightly lit with shiny new fixtures.

“I saw that,” James pointed at the range, “and I had to rent it even though the rest of the place is so small.” He took Francis’ coat.

Francis looked around, his hands clasped behind his back, his heart hammering away. It had been…awhile since he’d been with someone. He supposed he’d better sit on James’ worn leather couch. James sank down next to him.

“-Well, should we-”

“-What, um, what-”

James laughed. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to talk over you. I’m a little nervous. Hasn’t been anyone since Dundy.” He blushed, studying his fingers.

Francis reached over, taking James’ hands and squeezing. “Hasn’t been anyone since Ross. Can I kiss you again?”

James nodded, leaning in and kissing Francis, who felt that same burst of heat and tightness across his chest. This wasn’t the chaste kiss they had shared earlier. It was firm and eager, James opening his lips, Francis following his lead as the kiss deepened. He hadn’t been kissed like this in years, James’ tongue swiping in to meet his, their lips meeting over and over and over. Every nerve ending in his face was firing. He needed James, needed this in the worst possible way.

Francis’ hands moved up to tangle in James’ hair as James clutched desperately at his shirtfront. One hand gently fisted that lovely hair, pulling James’ head to the side so that Francis could worship at his neck, kissing up to his ear, a high “ah!” from James as a reward, followed by a low groan, a noise that skipped right past Francis’ brain, rocketing downwards to where his erection was uncomfortably confined in his dress slacks.

James was turning a beautiful shade of pink as he swung one leg over Francis’ lap. Francis tugged his hair again, this time backwards so that Francis had access to that little notch above James’ sternum, his lips traveling upwards until he felt James’ Adam’s apple bob as he gasped and swallowed.

“Again,” said James, his voice strained.

“You mean-” Francis pulled James’ hair again, earning a strangled cry.

“Ah, fuck. Yeah. Yeah.” James let out a needy whine as Francis tugged to the other side so that he could kiss right where James’ jaw ended, the whine turning to a sigh as Francis used the barest flash of teeth there.

James swore again, shaking his head free and turning his attentions back to Francis, kissing him, near devouring him, his hips jutting into Francis.

“God you smell delicious,” he murmured to Francis in between kisses. Everything felt too hot and too snug, his pants especially. “All I’ve been thinking about is how to get that cock in my mouth. Would you like that?”

“Christ, James.” Francis was rock-hard, his hands shaking as they slid down James’ back, grasping at his ass, firm under his fingers, James rocking into him and laughing, showing off most of his teeth, the bottom row slightly crooked. His face was nearly entirely pink, flushing a deeper red along his throat. 

“I’m going to put my mouth on you,” James said. “Fuck, I’ve been so hard all day, thinking about what I’m going to do to you.” He leaned in, kissing Francis’ neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark before sliding down, a bit inelegantly, not that Francis was complaining, ending up on his knees between Francis’ legs. Slender fingers made quick work of the belt and fly, Francis’ trousers and undergarments pulled down around his ankles as his erection emerged, James’ eyes widening with delight.

This man…he was an animal, Francis decided, watching James through heavy eyes, barely able to look at him, his hands trying to grip the couch leather. James was alternating between taking him deep and focusing on the head, his lips and tongue teasing, Francis’ prick leaking already. An animal. The only explanation.

“Look at me, Francis,” James ordered, working Francis’ cock with his hand.

“Bossy.” Francis glanced down, a mistake, really to be meeting James’ hungry gaze. “If I watch you, I’m going to-” He exhaled heavily, his hand finding James’ hair again.

“Already?”

“Yeah.” His insides knotted, a prickly fluttery sensation settling in his belly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Such a fucking turn-on, Francis. I’m gonna make you come so hard.” James was on him again, wet heat and pressure, his grip twisting on Francis’ spit-slicked cock, Francis groaning into the back of his hand.

“Fuck, James, ‘m close.” His hips bucked up, his thighs tensing and burning. James had him nearly there. A _complete_ animal. His need was near to bursting, ready to snap. “In? In your-”

“Yeah, I want it. Want you to, right in my mouth.” He licked a long stripe along the underside of Francis’ cock.

_Fuck_. James was nothing like the prissy vain peacock Francis had thought he was originally. His cock was deep in James’ mouth again, hitting very far when-

“Shit!” Everything shrunk to a pinprick before erupting up and out, his core trembling, contracting as he came. And came. And _came_. If he’d been standing up, he probably would have fallen over.

Slowly, Francis came back into his body, his eyes tracing the pattern along James’ ceiling.

“How was it? Acceptable?”

Francis laughed faintly. “Yeah. More than acceptable. Just need to, um…” he wrestled his underwear back up. “Let me get my sea legs. I don’t think I can stand.”

He looked down. James was resting his elbows on Francis’ knees, looking like the cat that ate the canary, wiping his lip with the back of his thumb before cleaning it with his tongue. If he hadn’t just finished, the sight of that alone would have done it.

“What, erm, what would you like? What do you like?” Francis said.

“Thought you’d never ask. Let’s see if we can’t get you ready for round two.”

“I don’t know if, I mean, I don’t usually-”

James was near dragging him into the bedroom.

“Of course not, but you’ve never been with someone like me.” The button-up came undone, James’ lithe, lightly muscled form emerging. He pulled Francis down onto the giant bed, laughing as their legs tangled, trousers coming off, shoes and socks pulled off and tossed to the floor, laughter dissolving into a sigh as their lips met again. James was down to his dark boxer briefs, Francis still in his shirt and underwear.

“Yeah,” James panted in Francis’ ear, his hardened cock against Francis’ thigh. “Yeah. Come on Francis. I want you in me, want to feel you splitting me open. Fuck, I need it bad, every fucking inch of you deep in me.”

_Oh._

Francis’ cock responded. He sat up slightly.

“Too much?” James asked, concerned.

“No. Surprised. Not unpleasantly so.”

“Good.” James sucked another love bite onto Francis’ neck before pushing him upright. “Fuck,” he muttered as he pulled Francis’ shirt and undershirt off, Francis tangled in it momentarily.

“What? I know I don’t look like you.”

“Jesus Christ, Francis. I’ve wanted to get you naked for awhile and you are…” James’ eyes were dark as he raked them over Francis’ bare chest, drinking in the sight. He bit his lip before locking eyes with Francis.

“I want you to hold me down and fuck me.”

\- - -

Sunlight streamed in through the window, Francis’ eyes opening to take in what the morning had brought. James had starfished out, facedown, one arm slung across Francis’ chest. His thoughts went to the night before.

James had rummaged around in a nightstand drawer, handing Francis a condom and a bottle before peeling his underthings off and tossing himself backwards onto the bed, looking up at him. Just like riding a bike, Francis had thought, if this particular bike had beautiful lean thighs, and sighed and shuddered as he pushed his fingers in, waiting until James nodded before pressing in further, curling upwards. He’d waited again until James had begged, the filthiest words coming out of his mouth, only making Francis harder as he removed his underwear and rolled the condom on. James parted his legs, nodding again, as Francis pinned James’ wrists above his head and entered him.

It had been slow, maddeningly so, James sighing and clenching his eyes shut with every thrust, tilting his head back as Francis settled down on him, James’ pliant body shifting and squirming beneath him. Slow. Wonderfully slow.

James had once said baking rewarded patience. So did this, Francis savoring James’ every movement and gasp, the sheen of perspiration on that delicate line of James’ collarbone, the hard edges of where James’ slim hips pressed into him, a whimpered, “Yes, there, more, please Francis.” Francis had let go of James’ wrists only after he’d begged again, one hand clutching the headboard fiercely and the other snaking between them, working his cock, hard and throbbing and an angry dark color contrasted with his pale fingers. 

It was more than the two of them together, James’s fevered encouragement, Francis’ hips rolling into him, setting a measured pace. It felt good, and correct, and wonderful, beyond that white-hot need in his core. James had given a startled cry as though he wasn’t prepared for what was going to happen or the speed of which it had arrived, his entire body near lifting up from the mattress. Francis followed closely as James clenched and convulsed against him. The rest had been a haze of cleaning and a quiet “Do you want me to go?” followed by, “Lord no, Francis, you dope. Stay.”

Francis slid out from under James’ arm.

“Morning, Francis,” James mumbled, eyes closed.

“Morning.” Francis tugged the sheet away from James. He was beautiful in the morning light, his hair a storm of waves on the pillow.

“James, why do you call it the Naked British Baker Blog?”

“Oh. Erm. Dundy once said he thought I’d look good in an apron and nothing else, and James Fitzjames does not back down from a challenge. It’s how I ended up with that little burn mark on my hip. I don’t recommend it.”

Francis ran a hand up James’ back, stopping at a set of four parallel scars.

“And the jungle cat in Indonesia?” Francis asked.

James rolled onto his back. “Um. A baby tiger got out of one of those horrible petting zoos and just climbed right up my back as I was sitting at a light on a motorbike. Ruined the jacket, but I did get it to an animal sanctuary in another town.”

“That’s a much better story than the one you have on the blog.”

“Can’t give away all my secrets, can I? You’ll get bored and leave.”

James was just wrong. Francis wasn’t going to leave anytime soon. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Francis murmured, James’ face blooming with praise.

“And you are handsome, and strong, and,” James’s voice dropped to a moan as Francis kissed his sternum, before shifting to press his lips to one brown nipple.

“Mmmm. Beautiful eyes. You’re all,” James groaned, louder. “All man. Sometimes I can barely look at you. It’s like looking into the sun.”

“Stop it.”

“I won’t.” James pulled him up and kissed him. “I mean it. You have no idea what you do to me, do you? You maddening tease. All I have to do is think about you smiling that little sly smile and that eyebrow, oh, there it is. I like you an awful lot, Francis. More than a lot. Much more. You didn’t think I was making those pastries just for the office, did you?”

“This whole time?”

James nodded, blushing.

Francis smiled, catching his lower lip in his teeth. He wasn’t quite ready to say what he felt about James, because he liked him much more than a lot as well. A stray thought crossed his mind. James had said he liked to leave when things got difficult.

_I love you too, James. I’ll just have to work extra hard to make you stay._

“Then sit still, and let me get you off,” Francis said.

James laughed again before putting his hands on Francis’ shoulders, pushing him down.


	7. Chapter 7

_a year later_

Francis thumbed through his phone out of boredom. Reception had been spotty coming back, from all places, Ibiza (“See, James, no coconuts.” “Yes, dear.”), but he’d finally been able to pull up the blog after unpacking and read the latest entry.

_The Art of Shooting One’s Shot: Part II_

_Apologies for not posting as much! I know you’ve all had to make do with only my recipes and no stories of adventures, but I have some exciting news! The Naked British Baker is officially off the market!_

Several photos were embedded, generic vacation shots of a tropical getaway.

_I’m ready to come out from behind the veil of secrecy. Baking’s always been about community, and it feels like it’s a good time to introduce myself, really, to all of you. No more hiding behind flashy travel photos and poetry._

_Baking has also been the one constant in my life. The way I show my friends that I care, even if we don’t get to see each other as often as we’d like, even if I’m moving every year, or trying out some new career on the other side of the globe. Even when putting out fires or dealing with crises or an illness or death in the family. Even when people leave you._

There was a photo of the two of them together in suits, James in navy and Francis in black with a light blue shirt, taken at Ed and Thomas’ wedding. James had his arm around Francis’ waist.

_I’ve found a new constant though._

There was a photo, one that James had taken of Francis, dozing on their couch, Cornelius fast asleep on his chest. A picture of James holding a very upset Cornelius, both of them wearing party hats, a tin of canned cat food with a lit candle in front of them. Another picture, one of them at Halloween as Sonny and Cher, James having donned a long black wig, somehow finding Francis the ugliest, mustardiest, widest-lapelled suit jacket imaginable.

_Someone who makes me want to stay in place and not bolt the moment things get a little difficult. Someone who puts up with my self-inflicted drama. Someone who makes every moment wonderful, even when he’s driving me mad._

The last set was all vacation photos. Francis, pale and freckly, faceup on a beach towel with a large sunhat over his face, his book forgotten as he napped, his swim trunks patterned with pineapples. James making a face at the camera, wearing extremely large sunglasses. A selfie, James’ lips pressed to Francis’ cheek. James coming up the ladder of a pool in an impossibly tiny red Speedo. Francis emerging from the ocean, his trunks patterned with little polar bears.

“How many swim trunks do you need?”

“I like to stay au courant, James,” Francis had replied.

“Yes, pineapple patterns are expected to be a big part of fashion week this year.”

_Someone who loves me._

Another picture, this time Francis in board shorts and a short-sleeved button-up, decorated with little anchors and ship wheels, looking out at the boats in the ocean from behind a pair of binoculars.

_I want to make him my always._

_Think he feels the same way._

_Wish me luck, dear readers._

_Tonight, I’m going to ask him to marry me._

_XOXO, James_

“Well? Are you going to tell them?” 

“Thought I’d let them stew on it a bit. Hope you don’t mind.” James’ voice drifted out from the kitchen, Francis’ fingers fiddling with the new jewelry on his hand. James had gotten down on one knee, on the beach, at sunset, which was so very James, Francis had mentioned later, Francis wiping away tears before muttering a “course I’ll marry you, now get up from the sand so I can kiss you, you big idiot,” which was so very Francis, as James mentioned later.

Francis held up his phone. “Can I at least tell people? Sophia keeps texting me. It’s just all caps, and so many hearts. And Blanky who says…” Francis squinted. “ ‘Took you fucking long enough.’ Asshole. Keep that up and I’ll make Cornelius my best man.”

James came back out with a tray of scones, the sun having indeed turned him a lovely olive shade.

“Fine,” he said, setting them down, Francis taking one to nibble on. “Oh, picked these up in the airport.” He pulled out a small stack of wedding magazines. “What do you think, summer?”

“We should just fucking elope and be done with it,” Francis grumbled into the scone. It was a good scone. They were always good scones.

“Don’t be a grump. Without me, you’d still be hate-reading baking blogs and cursing your very existence.”

“Oh, don’t be cruel, James.” Francis looked down. “I’m rather lucky to have found you, you know that, right?”

James smiled, coming over to sit on Francis’ lap. “I don’t mean it. Without you, I’d still be running from my problems.” He took the scone out of Francis’ hand, taking a small bite. “Good bake.”

“Should think so, they’re your pastries.”

“Have I told how they always turn out so well?”

Francis shook his head, James kissing him, his lips crumbly with scone. “There it is. I just imagine you eating whatever I’m making, and your face when you take that first bite. That little bit of disappointment when you come to the last morsel and it’s all gone. That excitement when you find where I hid the rest of the scones.” James smiled, his face warm and radiant, contentment washing over Francis.

“And that, dearest,” he said, bending in to kiss Francis’ nose where it had gotten a little too much sun, “is the secret to a good bake.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't really bake but I did watch an awful lot of GBBO (and cry whenever anyone in the tent cried) and that's basically the same thing, right?
> 
> ETA: Image Set here (https://sasheenka.tumblr.com/post/188882415133/image-set-for-the-naked-british-baker-by) by Sasheenka, thank you so so so much, it's perfect.
> 
> twitter.com/kiingbooooo (I'm just a disaster, sorry sorry)  



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